Death

In those days said Hiawatha,
"Lo! how all things fade and perish!
From the memory of the old men
Pass away the great traditions,
The achievements of the warriors,
The adventures of the hunters,
All the wisdom of the Medas,
All the craft of the Wabenos,
All the marvellous dreams and visions
Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets!
    "Great men die and are forgotten,
Wise men speak; their words of wisdom
Perish in the ears that hear them,
Do not reach the generations
That, as yet unborn, are waiting
In the great, mysterious darkness
Of the speechless days that shall be!
    "On the grave-posts of our fathers
Are no signs, no figures painted;
Who are in those graves we know not,
Only know they are our fathers.
Of what kith they are and kindred,...

Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping
Across the stepping-stones of meadow streams,
Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping,
But constant Sunshine as her servant seems.
Her heart is up--her sweetness, all a-maying,
Streams in her face, like gems on Beauty's breast;
The swains are sighing all, and well-a-daying,
Lovesick and gazing on their lovely guest.
The Sunday paths, to pleasant places leading,
Are graced by couples linking arm in arm,
Sweet smiles enjoying or some book a-reading,
Where Love and Beauty are the constant charm;
For while the bonny May is dancing by,
Beauty delights the ear, and Beauty fills the eye.

Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone
On May's young festival to be a widow;
The children, too, have pleasures all their...

Once through an autumn wood
I roamed in tearful mood,
By grief dismayed, doubting, and ill at ease;
When from a leafless oak,
Methought low murmurs broke,
Complaining accents, as of words like these:

"Incline thy mighty ear
Great Mother Earth, and hear
How I, thy child, am sorely vexed and tossed;
No one to heed my moan,
I shudder here, alone
With my destroyers, wind and snow, and frost.

Then low and unaware
This answer cleaved the air,
This tender answer, "Doubting one be still;
Oh trust to me, and know
The wind, the frost, the snow,
Are but my servants sent to do my will.

"For the destroyer frost,
His labor is not lost,
Rid thee he shall of many noisome things;
And thou shalt praise the snow
When drinking far b...

1.

In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp
A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,
Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.


2.

True, she has forc'd thee from my breast,
Yet, in my heart, thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there, thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.


3.

And, when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head -
Without thee! where would be my Heaven?

I have run where festival was loud
With drum and brass among the crowd
Of panic revellers, whose cries
Affront the quiet of the skies;
Whose dancing lights contract the deep
Infinity of night and sleep
To a narrow turmoil of troubled fire.
And I have found my heart's desire
In beechen caverns that autumn fills
With the blue shadowiness of distant hills;
Whose luminous grey pillars bear
The stooping sky: calm is the air,
Nor any sound is heard to mar
That crystal silence - as from far,
Far off a man may see
The busy world all utterly
Hushed as an old memorial scene.
Long evenings I have sat and been
Strangely content, while in my hands
I held a wealth of coloured strands,
Shimmering plaits of silk and skeins
Of soft bright wool. Each co...

I

Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night!
Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude
On hearts howe'er insensible or rude;
Whether thy punctual visitations smite
The haughty towers where monarchs dwell;
Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright
Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's cell!
Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky
In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze,
Or cloud approaching to divert the rays,
Which even in deepest winter testify
Thy power and majesty,
Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze.
Well does thine aspect usher in this Day;
As aptly suits therewith that modest pace
Submitted to the chains
That bind thee to the path which God ordains
That thou shalt trace,
Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass a...

Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
    When he left this world of ours,
Laid his body in the cloister,
    Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

And he gave the monks his treasures,
    Gave them all with this behest:
They should feed the birds at noontide
    Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels
    I have learned the art of song;
Let me now repay the lessons
    They have taught so well and long."

Thus the bard of love departed;
    And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted
    By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret,
    In foul weather and in fair,
Day by day, in vaster numbers,
    Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches...

There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far
    To say in written words than when we sit
    Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit.
Not that there is between us any bar
    Of shyness or reserve; the day is past
    For that, and utter trust has come at last.

Only, when shut alone and safe inside
    These four white walls, - hearing no sound except
    Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept
Stealthily round us, - as the incoming tide
    Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on
    Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.

Or out on the green hillside, even there
    There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.
    For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill
With wondrous echoes all the waiting air.
    We listen, and in...

The bold young Autumn came riding along
    One day where an elm-tree grew.
"You are fair," he said, as she bent down her head,
    "Too fair for your robe's dull hue.
You are far too young for a garb so old;
    Your beauty needs colour and sheen.
Oh, I would clothe you in scarlet and gold
    Befitting the grace of a queen.

"For one little kiss on your lips, sweet elm,
    For one little kiss, no more,
I would give you, I swear, a robe more fair
    Than ever a princess wore.
One little kiss on those lips, my pet,
    And lo! you shall stand, I say,
Queen of the forest, and, better yet,
    Queen of my heart alway."

She tossed her head, but he took the kiss -
    'Tis the way of lovers bold -
And a gorgeous dress for that sweet caress

Written at Middleton.


Oh albums, albums, how I dread
    Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!
How often wish that from the dead
Old Omar would pop forth his head,
    And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,
    The blushless blues, who, day and night,
Like duns in doorways, take their stand,
To waylay bards, with book in hand,
    Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain,
    That o'er me at this instant come,
When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,
Knocks at the portal of my brain,
    And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

November, 1828.

Some people hang portraits up
In a room where they dine or sup:
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
And her cousin, he stirs his cup,
Asks “Who was the lady, I wonder?”
“’T is a daub John bought at a sale,”
Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder:
“What a shade beneath her nose!
“Snuff-taking, I suppose,”
Adds the cousin, while John’s corns ail.

Or else, there ’s no wife in the case,
But the portrait ’s queen of the place,
Alone mid the other spoils
Of youth, masks, gloves and foils,
And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,
And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,
And the cast from a fist (“not, alas! mine,
“But my master’s, the Tipton Slasher”),
And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace,
And a satin shoe used for cigar-case,
And th...

All my mind has sat in state,
Pond'ring on the deathless Soul:
What must be the Perfect Whole,
When the atom is so great!

God!    I fall in spirit down,
Low as Persian to the sun;
All my senses, one by one,
In the stream of Thought must drown.

On the tide of mystery,
Like a waif, I'm seaward borne,
Ever looking for the morn
That will yet interpret Thee,

Opening my blinded eyes,
That have strove to look within,
'Whelmed in clouds of doubt and sin,
Sinking where I dared to rise:

Could I trace one Spirit's flight,
Track it to its final goal,
Know that 'Spirit' meant 'the Soul,'
I must perish in the light.

All in vain I search, and cry:
"What, O Soul, and whence art thou?"
Lower than the earth I bow,

How sweet the music sounded
That summer long ago,
When you were by my side, love,
To list its gentle flow.

I saw your eyes a-shining,
I felt your rippling hair,
I kissed your pearly cheek, love,
And had no thought of care.

And gay or sad the music,
With subtle charm replete;
I found in after years, love
'Twas you that made it sweet.

For standing where we heard it,
I hear again the strain;
It wakes my heart, but thrills it
With sad, mysterious pain.

It pulses not so joyous
As when you stood with me,
And hand in hand we listened
To that low melody.

Oh, could the years turn back, love!
Oh, could events be changed
To what they were that time, love,
Before we were estranged;

Wert thou once ...

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair
    As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,
Because its leaves spread in my native air,
    And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew
    In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,
Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,
    Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then,
    Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,
That from my cradle loved me, and again
    We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu

I am a stranger here, I have not seen
    One friendly face of all that I have known,
And my heart mourns for thee my island green,
    Because I am a stranger and alone

So thou art welcome as a friend to me,
...

I

Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march?
And what shall be the music of his dirge?
No single voice may chant the Nation's grief,
No formal strain can give its woe relief.
The pent-up anguish of the loyal wife,
The sobs of those who, nearest in this life,
Still hold him closely in the life beyond; -
These first, with threnody of memories fond.
But look! Forth press a myriad mourners thronging,
With hearts that throb in sorrow's exaltation,
Moved by a strange, impassioned, hopeless longing
To serve him with their love's last ministration.
Make way! Make way, from wave-bound verge to verge
Of all our land, that this great multitude
With lamentation proud albeit subdued,
Deep murmuring like the ocean's mighty surge,
May pass beneath the heavens' ...

One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen -
    To see him pass, the hero of an hour,
Whom men called great. She bowed with languid mien,
    And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty's power.

One trailed her tinseled garments through the street,
    And thrust aside the crowd, and found a place
So near, the blooded courser's praning feet
    Cast sparks of fire upon her painted face.

One took the hot-house blossoms from her breast,
    And tossed them down, as he went riding by.
And blushed rose-red to see them fondly pressed
    To bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye.

One, bold and hardened with her sinful life,
    Yet shrank and shivered painfully, because
His cruel glance cut keener than a knife,
    The glance of him who made her what...

From height of noon, remote and still,
The sun shines on the empty hill.
No mist, no wind, above, below;
No living thing strays to and fro.
No bird replies to bird on high,
Cleaving the skies with echoing cry.
Like dreaming water, green and wan,
Glassing the snow of mantling swan,
Like a clear jewel encharactered
With secret symbol of line and word,
Asheen, unruffled, slumbrous, still,
The sunlight streams on the empty hill.

But soon as Night's dark shadows ride
Across its shrouded Eastern side,
When at her kindling, clear and full,
Star beyond star stands visible;
Then course pale phantoms, fleet-foot deer
Lap of its waters icy-clear;
Mounts the large moon, and pours her beams
On bright-fish-flashing, singing streams;
Voices re-echo;...

Alone in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved
Shed round us once, where'er we roved--
This, this the doom must be
Of all who've loved, and lived to see
The few bright things they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice--where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art can not call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no,--her spell i...